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Authors: Susanna Gregory
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faltered.
Bartholomew nodded, remembering the extensive
examination he had made. Not only was Augustus dead,
but rigor mortis had begun to set in, and no drugs or
poisons, however sophisticated, could mimic that.
‘But who would do this?’ Aelfrith blurted out. ‘What
could anyone want to gain from poor old Augustus? And
where is the man who attacked me?’
Bartholomew leaned back against the wall and
closed his eyes. He thought about Augustus’s previous
claims and the burnt bed; about the unexpected death
of Sir John; about Brother Michael’s strange behaviour; and about the other Fellows’ reactions - Wilson’s lack of emotion when told that Augustus was dead, Swynford’s
dismissal of Augustus as a senile old man, and even
Aelfrith’s expressionless acceptance.
He began to feel sick in the pit of his stomach. All
his suspicions of the night before came clamouring back to him. There were too many questions, and too many
unexplained details. Suddenly, he had no doubts about
the validity of Augustus’s statements, and that, because of them, someone had wanted him out of the way. But who?
And why? And even more urgent, where was Augustus’s
body? Why would anyone want to remove the body of
an old man?
‘Matthew?’ Bartholomew opened his eyes. Father
Aelfrith’s austere face was regarding him sombrely, his normally neat grey hair sticking up in all directions
around his tonsure. ‘Look in the commoners’ room to
see if Augustus was moved there, then look down the
stairs …’
Bartholomew sighed. ‘Whoever attacked you also
attacked me. I was knocked down the stairs, and I know Augustus is not there. I looked in the commoners’ room and know that he is not there either. We will check
again together, but whoever attacked us also seems to
have taken Augustus.’
‘That does not necessarily follow, my son,’ said
Aelfrith. ‘You have no proof for such a statement.’
Bartholomew pulled a face. Aelfrith, one of the
University’s foremost teachers of logic, was right, but both attacks and the removal of Augustus had occurred
in or near Augustus’s room, and if the same person was not responsible, then at least both events must have been connected to the same cause.
‘We should fetch Master Wilson,’ he said. ‘He should
come to decide what should be done.’
‘Yes. We will,’ said Aelfrith. ‘But first I want to find Augustus. He cannot be far. We will look together, and undoubtedly find that he has been moved for some
perfectly logical reason.’
Aelfrith rose, looking under the bed a second
time as he did so. In the interests of being thorough, Bartholomew also glanced under the bed, but there
was nothing there, not even the black fragments
of wood he had examined the night before. He
looked closer. The dust that had collected under
the bed had gone. It looked as though someone
had carefully swept underneath it. He looked at the
floor under the small table, and found that that too
had been swept.
‘You will not find him under there, Matthew,’ said
Aelfrith, a trifle testily, and began to walk to the
commoners’ room. Bartholomew followed, looking at
the gouge in the wall where he had deflected the knife blade away from himself.
Both men stood in the doorway looking at the nine
sleeping commoners. All along the far side of the long room were tiny carrels, or small workspaces, positioned to make use of the lightfrom the windows. The carrels had high wooden sides so that, when seated, a scholar would not be able to see his neighbour; for most scholars in medieval Cambridge, privacy for studying was regarded
as a far more valuable thing than privacy to sleep. All the carrels were empty, some with papers lying in them, one or two with a precious book from Michaelhouse’s small
library.
Bartholomew walked slowly round the room, checking
each of the commoners. Five of them, including
Paul, were old men, living out their lives on
Bartholomew nodded, remembering the extensive
examination he had made. Not only was Augustus dead,
but rigor mortis had begun to set in, and no drugs or
poisons, however sophisticated, could mimic that.
‘But who would do this?’ Aelfrith blurted out. ‘What
could anyone want to gain from poor old Augustus? And
where is the man who attacked me?’
Bartholomew leaned back against the wall and
closed his eyes. He thought about Augustus’s previous
claims and the burnt bed; about the unexpected death
of Sir John; about Brother Michael’s strange behaviour; and about the other Fellows’ reactions - Wilson’s lack of emotion when told that Augustus was dead, Swynford’s
dismissal of Augustus as a senile old man, and even
Aelfrith’s expressionless acceptance.
He began to feel sick in the pit of his stomach. All
his suspicions of the night before came clamouring back to him. There were too many questions, and too many
unexplained details. Suddenly, he had no doubts about
the validity of Augustus’s statements, and that, because of them, someone had wanted him out of the way. But who?
And why? And even more urgent, where was Augustus’s
body? Why would anyone want to remove the body of
an old man?
‘Matthew?’ Bartholomew opened his eyes. Father
Aelfrith’s austere face was regarding him sombrely, his normally neat grey hair sticking up in all directions
around his tonsure. ‘Look in the commoners’ room to
see if Augustus was moved there, then look down the
stairs …’
Bartholomew sighed. ‘Whoever attacked you also
attacked me. I was knocked down the stairs, and I know Augustus is not there. I looked in the commoners’ room and know that he is not there either. We will check
again together, but whoever attacked us also seems to
have taken Augustus.’
‘That does not necessarily follow, my son,’ said
Aelfrith. ‘You have no proof for such a statement.’
Bartholomew pulled a face. Aelfrith, one of the
University’s foremost teachers of logic, was right, but both attacks and the removal of Augustus had occurred
in or near Augustus’s room, and if the same person was not responsible, then at least both events must have been connected to the same cause.
‘We should fetch Master Wilson,’ he said. ‘He should
come to decide what should be done.’
‘Yes. We will,’ said Aelfrith. ‘But first I want to find Augustus. He cannot be far. We will look together, and undoubtedly find that he has been moved for some
perfectly logical reason.’
Aelfrith rose, looking under the bed a second
time as he did so. In the interests of being thorough, Bartholomew also glanced under the bed, but there
was nothing there, not even the black fragments
of wood he had examined the night before. He
looked closer. The dust that had collected under
the bed had gone. It looked as though someone
had carefully swept underneath it. He looked at the
floor under the small table, and found that that too
had been swept.
‘You will not find him under there, Matthew,’ said
Aelfrith, a trifle testily, and began to walk to the
commoners’ room. Bartholomew followed, looking at
the gouge in the wall where he had deflected the knife blade away from himself.
Both men stood in the doorway looking at the nine
sleeping commoners. All along the far side of the long room were tiny carrels, or small workspaces, positioned to make use of the lightfrom the windows. The carrels had high wooden sides so that, when seated, a scholar would not be able to see his neighbour; for most scholars in medieval Cambridge, privacy for studying was regarded
as a far more valuable thing than privacy to sleep. All the carrels were empty, some with papers lying in them, one or two with a precious book from Michaelhouse’s small
library.
Bartholomew walked slowly round the room, checking
each of the commoners. Five of them, including
Paul, were old men, living out their lives on
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